Total War
by NejiKikyoAnimeRose
Summary: Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy choose a terrible time to fall in love.  AU, WWII, EnglandFrance/ArthurFrancis
1. And So Arthur Met Him

Arthur Kirkland was roaming the streets of Paris, France on 23 January 1938, coat snugly wrapped around him, scarf hugging his face and keeping him nice and warm in the frigid French air. But, even in the bleak weather, his spirits were unusually high. He had always wanted to go to France, just to sightsee maybe, just to speak French with someone perhaps, or just to be there. His mother had refused to fund the trip, as she always did, the cow, so he'd had to come up with the money himself. After a year and many months, he had finally reached his goal and here he was. Finally in France and finding, to his immense yet very satisfied surprise, that she was exceeding every single one of his expectations.

The people were fantastic, the sights were spectacular, and the _freedom_! Arthur couldn't really put words to how it felt for him to finally be able to do what he wanted when he wanted to.

Ever since he was a young boy, Arthur had always hated the life of his very rich and noble family, the Kirklands. Don't get him wrong, he was a born Englishman and always considered himself to be a perfect gentleman. But he never wanted to be a bloody stick in the mud who was expected to meet all the right people, schmooze all the right women, and marry the perfect girl once he got tired of schmoozing; and that was exactly what his family was breeding him to become. First of all, Arthur Kirkland was going to be nothing if not an extrovert, and second, if he got married, it would certainly be to a woman he loved. There was no way in hell he was condemning himself to a life with some random dame he'd known for a week and couldn't stand.

Call it romantic, call it sensible, call it what you will, it was Arthur's life philosophy, and he did not see it changing anytime soon.

"Ah, fuck," he swore as the snow that had been falling lightly to that point began to come down harder on him. Winter made everything look beautiful, but stick him in the middle of it, and you had one very unhappy Arthur Kirkland.

He quickened his step and hurried down the street, images of his soft bed in his hotel room filling his mind. He tried to take in as many of the sights as he could even as he ran for cover. Paris was such a nice city even in a downpour of snow.

His hotel slowly came into his view and he smiled, relieved. There it was! The Hotel Britannique. Arthur sped up even more so that he now ran towards the safety of his hotel.

When he stumbled through the front doors, Arthur felt as though he had just gotten out of a shower. His coat was covered in little snowflakes that were now melting thanks to the abrupt increase in temperature, his hair was in much the same condition, and he felt as though his pants were one step away from freezing to his legs. He shivered and turned to shake his head and cast a withering glance out towards the wintery blizzard outside.

"Mon, ma, c'est tout à fait glacial dehors, non?" (My, my, it's quite frigid outside, no?) Arthur turned to see a young man about his age standing before him wearing a slightly amused expression. Arthur laughed at his obviously French appearance but pretended to be chuckling in agreement. He nodded.

"Oh, absolument," he responded fluently. "J'ai faille mourir là-bas." (Oh, absolutely. I almost died out there.) The man laughed with him for a moment but seemed to realize something and sobered. He looked at Arthur curiously.

"Vous n'êtes pas français?" (You are not French?) he asked. Arthur shook his head and grinned.

"Non, je suis anglais," (No, I'm English) he corrected. The man looked mildly surprised but reined it in very well, Arthur thought.

"Forgive me, sir, I jumped to conclusions. But you do speak very lovely French. You have learned at university?" His accent was very heavily French and he stumbled sometimes when he spoke English, leading Arthur to believe that he was still not quite as fluent with the language as he was in his mother tongue. He nodded and presented his hand to the man.

"I did, actually," he responded, allowing his English accent to shine through. "Arthur Kirkland." The man smiled and took his hand firmly but cordially.

"Francis Bonnefoy," he greeted. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine. So, Monsieur Bonnefoy—"

"Francis, if you please."

"Very well, Francis it is, then. Only if you call me Arthur."

"I would be glad to."

"So, Francis, I would very much like to continue this discussion, but I'm just a little out of sorts at the moment." He gestured to his dripping attire. "Would you mind if I just went to my room to freshen up?" Francis waved his hand delicately and laughed a little sheepishly.

"Oh, oui, oui, excusez-moi, take all the time you need!" he said. "I shall wait for you in the lobby?" Arthur nodded.

"That'll be splendid," he agreed. "I'll see you in a few minutes, then, Francis. I am very pleased to meet you." He shook hands with Francis once more and then headed to the stairs.

In his room, the first thing he did was change out of his at the very least slightly damp clothes into something nicer. The Frenchman, Francis, had been dressed simply but he'd been just dripping with French panache. Arthur didn't want to make him think that England was any less concerned about appearances than France.

Once he was finished with that, he hurried back down the stairs and into the lobby to meet Francis again. He found the Frenchman sitting alone cross-legged on one of the many posh sofas in the hotel. He sat down beside him and offered his hand again.

"So sorry about that," he said. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting."

"Not at all, not at all," Francis dismissed. "So, where did you learn to speak French? Forgive me my curiosity."

"Quite alright. I learned at Cambridge. It's a bit of a necessity for someone like me to learn French, actually. My family insisted, and I've come to realize how useful it is.

"What about you? You obviously know a little English, where did you learn?" Francis smiled and flicked his styled hair from his eyes.

"I learned from my father, actually," he said. "It's not exactly as big a deal for the French to learn English."

"Bloody French arrogance," Arthur laughed, completely jokingly. Francis looked a little confused to cover up his defensive indignation and immediately Arthur understood his error.

"Oh, I'm sorry, do forgive me!" he amended hastily. "That was completely uncalled for, I apologize. One of the things you should know about me; I speak before I think sometimes. I am so sorry." Once again, Francis waved off the comment, forcing the smile back onto his face.

"I suppose it is true," he conceded. "To an extent. You don't see much of an… uh… emphasis on learning the English language here in France." Arthur nodded, eager to move past his mistake and talk about something completely unrelated to his idiocy.

"Well, I suppose that that makes sense, especially now," Arthur said, making a grave reference. Francis cleared his throat and looked around carefully. Arthur almost smirked at his discomfort; it was so very French! And by French he meant womanish.

"Sorry, old chap, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, but the political world…" He paused to shrug comically. "Is actually quite my cup of tea." Francis rolled his eyes and rested his chin gracefully upon the back of his hand. Oh, if he were a woman, Arthur's parents would _love_ him.

Now there was an idea…

"Oh, so you are one of _those_ types," he drawled, the heaviness of French accent making him sound all the more snobbish. Arthur leaned back against the sofa, arms crossed and incredibly intrigued.

"I suppose I am," he confirmed. He felt the corner of his lips turning upwards as the conversation continued. "It's one hell of an interesting topic. Are you not as… into those sorts of things as I am?" Francis smiled and tossed his free hand theatrically.

"It is not, as you say, my cup of tea, monsieur," he chuckled. Arthur laughed. "Now, linguistics, there is something I can get into!" They both dissolved into laughter.

* * *

Arthur woke up the next morning hung over in his bed, still wearing his clothes and shoes. He noted offhandedly that they smelled awful. Groaning, he tried to pull himself into an upright position but stopped when he realized that it hurt too bloody much. He was convinced there was a fucking monkey playing cymbals in his head.

"Bloody fucking hell," he mumbled. "Jesus, Mary, fucking Joseph, and all the saints, what did I do last night?" He strained his poor mind as much as he dared, to remember what he'd done that had resulted in him getting so very wasted out of his mind. He managed to conjure an image of styled blonde hair and a very French foppish outfit. He moaned out five more curses when the memory finally returned to him. He'd spent the tail end of the previous afternoon and most of the evening with that odd fellow, Francis Bonnefoy. And now he couldn't remember anything he'd done.

"Oh, god, I hope I didn't bugger the bastard," he grouched. He honestly wouldn't be surprised if he did. There had been a definite chemistry between them and he swore he could've tasted the sexual tension that wrought the air at the time.

Oh, shit, now he was getting hard.

"Fuck it, he's French, and I like French, problem solved," Arthur snapped and immediately regretted it as it upset the monkey in his head into pounding those damn cymbals together once again. "Go awaaaaaaaaay!"

A knock at the door interrupted him and he let out a small yelp and threw himself onto his pillows in a halfhearted tantrum.

"Go awaaaaaaaaaaay!" he whined again into his pillows, not sure who he was talking to, the monkey or whoever the hell was at his door.

"Arthur?" a very familiar French voice floated through the doorway and Arthur felt irritation rush through him at the sound. Bloody bastard was the reason Arthur was like this, and he had the nerve to not have a hangover that was just as bad as if not ten times worse than Arthur's? Ass.

"Go'way," Arthur pouted into his pillows, trying to bury himself as far as he could into the nice fluffy sheets of his bed. They were quiet.

He heard some colorful French phrases on the other side of his door and snickered. When he heard the click of the door, he sobered (as much as a hung over man could sober) and turned his head to see an impeccably dressed Francis walk through the now open doorway, plastic bag in hand.

"Eh bien, c'est ce que l'alcool va faire pour que Britannique, je suppose." (Well, this is what alcohol will do to a Brit, I suppose) he sighed. "Arthur, come on, sit up and take this." He closed the door to the room and walked over to the bed. Arthur personally thought that Francis was navigating his way around the room with far too much familiarity for someone he didn't have sex with.

"Please tell me I didn't have sex with you," Arthur mumbled as the Frenchman sat down on the bed and held out an aspirin tablet. Francis' face turned a dusty pink and he spluttered as Arthur's still slightly drunken gaze pierced into him.

"Non, non!" he insisted. "We did not have – we did not do anything like _that_, Arthur, I promise you." Arthur only glared at him suspiciously as he reached out and clumsily took the tablets and the glass of water Francis offered him.

"Then how'd you get my key?" the Brit demanded. Francis folded his arms indignantly.

"You left it at the bar," he responded easily and with a great tone of finality. "Where you had been flirting with virtually everything with a _skirt_ and _breasts_." Arthur surprised Francis by only tilting his head as though he were in thought.

"Actually, I thought I'd be a bisexual drunk," he mused aloud. Francis couldn't stop his eyebrows from rising above his hairline.

"Excuse me… what?" Arthur shrugged.

"Nothing wrong with being a poof," he pointed out to no one in particular. "And quite frankly, I remember there being several very good-looking men at the bar whom I wouldn't have minded shagging." Francis' mouth fell open and he stared at Arthur. "You being chief among them." Francis' face burned. Arthur raised the glass with a smirk on his face. "Cheers." Popping the tablets easily into his mouth he chugged the water quickly and tossed the glass onto the bed before flopping back down onto it himself.

"And since I can't remember anything I did last night, I figured it'd be safe to make sure," he slurred tiredly. Francis shook his head and suddenly Arthur remembered something. "Wait a minute." He pushed himself up onto his elbows and turned a grin onto his companion. "If I recall correctly, I was the one drinking, and _you_ were the one flirting with all things slutty and busty." Now Francis' face was a deep crimson and he turned away abruptly, his posture everything uncomfortable and embarrassed. Arthur laughed, ignoring the pain in his head. This was so worth it.

"Aha! Trying to take advantage of my weakness, you buggerer!" he accused. "Very smooth attempt, I must say, but you're a rampant Don Juan, and that's something you just can't hide." Arthur was laughing now and Francis began to try in vain to shut him up, and before they knew it, the clock struck five and Arthur's hangover was all but gone.

It was then that Arthur made a great discovery: aspirin tablets worked well for a hangover, but if he really wanted results, then shove him in a room with Francis Bonnefoy and his headache would be gone in minutes.

* * *

**First ever Hetalia fic! It ain't the greatest and I acknowledge that, but I had so much fun writing it and that's all that matters! This is actually a very huge experiment, just a warning. I've had this fic planned for a long time but I'm largely unused to writing these characters. That being said, yes, I realize that Francis is not quite his usual perverted self and he and Arthur seem to have actually had a bit of a character swap, but that was done on purpose. And the only thing it's supposed to achieve is making Arthur a bit more comfortable with the concept of actually being sexually involved with other men. Francis is only used to doing that crazy intercourse stuff with chicks. And this is an AU, so I changed the characters a little bit on purpose. Had I been writing it in canon-verse, do not worry, they would be far more in character! **

**Ahem, anyway, I don't own Hetalia (I'm sure there are a lot of people who are glad about that) and I'm going to give the characters back once I'm through. **

**This is the prologue of sorts, I guess you could say. Francis and Arthur meet in this one and then the true fun begins! I hope I didn't botch my first attempt at a Hetalia fic, cuz I do so love the anime and comic strips. And Britain and France. Love them too.**

**Ignore the bad French, too, that was only so that there would be a general effect.**

**_Edit_**

**And thank you to everyone and anyone who pointed out or (in the future) points out any errors in the story! I normally read these through pretty carefully, but I don't catch everything... Thank you ghibli22 in particular for pointing out that card keys don't really exist in 1938... I feel pretty sheepish now. -.-_  
_**


	2. Le Jardin

_**Two weeks later**_

Arthur sighed and leaned back casually in his chair. It was a skill he had picked up from his family; he could achieve a sort of effortless elegance even when he slouched or lazed. It was a useful skill to have. Especially in situations such as these.

"Arthur, what do you have to say for yourself." It was not a question but he was expected to answer.

"I'm sorry, did you expect anything more from me?" There. Let her chew on that for a while. Arthur was glad at least that she didn't pretend to look shocked anymore. She had finally given that up when she realized it was no longer effective. Now, her eyes adopted a steely look and she narrowed them.

"Of course not," she said. "But a woman can hope, no matter how naïve such a hopeless venture should make her appear."

"Oh, but mother. Men love hopefulness in women. A woman is expected to hope where there is obviously none. It gives her a childish appeal and an innocent luster. Men appreciate her more that way."

"Indeed." She smiled a perfectly false smile at him and he returned the gesture. Years of misunderstanding and cold separation passed between them in that one look and it was possible that mother and son had never been more connected than they were in that moment, hateful though that connection was. In her son's eyes, Lady Kirkland could see rebellion, a desire for freedom, and mischievous disobedience. In his mother's eyes, Arthur Kirkland could see disdain and aloof disgust. He refused to give in.

"So, I assume, then, you have a reason for coming all the way to France in pursuit of me?" he asked airily, examining his nails as though they were manicured. He loved doing that in front of his mother. It was, after all, a habit he learned from her. "For there is absolutely no way you came here just for a friendly visit. Enjoying the decor, mother?" He saw her minute twitch and inwardly rejoiced. She recovered quickly. His mother looked at him through cold eyes, long having lost whatever warmth of love they may have held for him. She sat perched elegantly upon one of his apartment's plain wooden chairs, and Arthur had no doubt that his mother thought the damn thing a better sight than him.

"Everywhere you go, you make a spectacle of yourself," she said plainly. "It is insulting to our family. You were unfortunate enough to have been born a Kirkland indeed, as we were unfortunate enough to have you." She stood.

"But, no matter the misfortune of our circumstances, you will live as you were bred. And you will live that life proudly. There are more freedoms to this way than you may think." Arthur's triumph seeped from his body as though a floodgate within him had been opened. He knew that tone. This was going to become a long history of the family, Arthur could just tell. He sighed and made a point of settling himself down for the long boring lecture. His mother sneered at him.

"There are women somewhere on our godforsaken spit of an island that would have you," she said. "Lord knows I do not understand why, but it is true nonetheless. And I know that there is a part of you that would cherish an opportunity to have one of them." She leaned forward and looked at him with her cold soulless eyes. "Wouldn't you, my boy? An abundance of lovely _ladies_ to choose from. It is simply a dream come true for a bachelor, is it not?" Arthur was quivering and he glared at his mother. He opened his mouth to speak but she glided past him with a disdainful ease. She spared no other glance at him.

"I shall see myself out. I expect you back at England in a fortnight this day. Send a letter when you arrive. We have much to discuss. Good day." She left the apartment with a quietly triumphant air. Arthur glowered after her.

"Dammit! Fuck the bitch a thousand times," he cursed. "No, a _million_ times!" But it was too late. She had done the damage and now he couldn't do anything but seethe in anger. And swearing after her wasn't going to change anything. Arthur had learned a long time ago that his family was brutal with anything that opposed them, even kin. When he was in college, there had been an incident. It had the potential to scar his reputation and even had come close to driving him out of England. Had not his family stepped in, Arthur didn't know where he would be right now.

It had ended terribly. Some other poor bloke took the blame and Arthur was let off the hook. Arthur didn't know who the man was and his family didn't tell him. Every time Arthur thought of it, there was conjured a sick image in his mind of his father sitting at a polished oak desk flanked by burly tough looking men, telling him in a scratchy throaty voice, "Don't worry about it." It was like the damn mafia, and Arthur hated it to this very day.

Anyway, the point of it was, Arthur could not escape his family because if he tried, they would stop hiding him from the world and reveal his deepest darkest secret as a parting gift. That would be their farewell; that would be them bidding him stand on his own two feet without their help after they had just knocked the wind out of him.

Arthur had lived his life the best he could as free of his family as he dared, and he often toed the line, which frustrated the Kirklands to no end. And he gloried in their frustration. Sometimes he felt he lived for nothing more than the twitch in his father's left eye that was the only hint of his anger. Sometimes he felt he lived for a scandalized look from his stoic mother, a gasp of surprise from his frigid sister, an uncontrolled growl deep in his superior brother's throat.

But he hadn't gotten any of that just now.

No, now had been one of his failures, and he bemoaned the failure.

Arthur's head fell to his hands and he released an angry sigh. Oh, good god, he was not in the mood for this.

His thoughts shifted to Francis and he made a split-second decision. He hoped the damned bastard would be able to cheer him up at least a little bit.

* * *

"You seem very… chipper… today." Arthur glared at the Frenchman beside him, taking careful note of the sarcasm.

"Sod off," he grumbled. "Today's just been a bad day."

"Better now that _I _am here, _mon petit lapin_?" Francis grinned, leaning close to Arthur to waggle his eyebrows playfully. The Brit growled and shoved him away.

"What part of _sod off_ don't you understand? And why the hell do you keep calling me that? How am I like a bloody rabbit?" Francis answered unblinkingly.

"Your eyebrows remind me of one." Arthur's stare was so comically stupid that Francis had to stop walking to control his laughter. Arthur blushed bright red in embarrassed anger. He grabbed the lapels of Francis' jacket and pulled him in close.

"You leave my eyebrows out of this, you wanker!" he threatened. Francis waved his hands weakly in a peace gesture and tried to wipe some of the mirthful moisture from his eyes.

"_Je suis désolé, Arthur, s'il vous plait! Je ne peux pas respirer!_" (I'm sorry, Arthur, please! I can't breathe!) He continued laughing for another obnoxious minute and Arthur waited in a silent huff for him to calm down. Francis finally seemed to get the memo and tried to stem the flow of hilarity that had so suddenly overtaken him.

Arthur rolled his eyes and continued walking, fed up with the Frenchman. Francis jogged after him, a teasing grin still adorning his face.

"Oh, come on, Arthur," he mock pleaded. "You can't seriously be so upset just because I had a little fun, _oui_? Come now, Arthur! It's all – what was that phrase again? Ah! Water under the bridge! It's all water under the bridge, non?" Arthur slowed his walk and Francis grinned wider. He slowed his pace as well.

"I apologize for having such fun at your expense, _mon ami_. It was uncalled for and very rude and tactless on my part." He saw Arthur's shoulders shake a bit and knew that the Brit was fighting off laughter. "Well? Am I forgiven?"

Arthur stopped completely and turned around to flash a lopsided smirk at Francis. He walked up to him and gave him a hard elbow to the gut. Francis grunted and stumbled away from Arthur, taken entirely off guard.

"What was tha—"

"I suppose I can forgive you just this once, you damned frog."

"How very… gracious of you," Francis mumbled, rubbing his stomach. Arthur ignored him and stuffed his hands in his pockets, indulging himself in his need to sulk. Francis watched him.

"Something is wrong?" he guessed with a tiny grin. Arthur shot him a sideways glare.

"No fucking shit," he grumbled moodily. "What a bloody genius you are." Francis rolled his eyes and moved over to Arthur's side, slinging an arm about the Brit's shoulders and pulling him in close. He took advantage of his height and forced Arthur to walk a little shorter. Arthur yelped indignantly and Francis placed his cheek on the forcibly shortened man's head. He sighed dramatically.

"Oh, my poor little Englishman," he sighed. "_Vous savez, François ne pouvait tout faire mieux!_ If you would just tell him what was going on~" (You know, Francis could make everything better!) Arthur ripped himself away from Francis and roughly jabbed a fist into his shoulder.

"You bloody bastard, what the hell was that for!" he demanded. Francis chuckled and put his hands on his hips, lifting an eyebrow. He glanced mischievously at his companion.

"You always respond," he said simply. Arthur stared at him a moment more and then groaned and resumed his walking and sulking. Francis walked beside him once more, serious this time.

"Are you ready to tell me what it is that is bothering you?" he asked.

"My mother demands I return to England two weeks from today," Arthur responded without looking at Francis, who blinked in confusion.

"Why is that so bad?" he asked. Arthur spat out a laugh and shot Francis a wry smile.

"I see we've never exactly discussed my family life, have we?" Francis shook his head.

"_Non_," he said carefully. "I figured you would speak of it if you want to." He stopped. "Wanted to," he corrected himself quickly. Arthur nodded and scanned the street for vacant benches.

"Well, I guess this is me wanting to," he grinned, catching sight of an empty bench and indicating towards it. The two sat in unison. Arthur's head flopped forward and he moaned his frustration.

"Okay. Where do I start?" Francis leaned back against the bench and ran a hand through his shoulder length hair. He hadn't tied it back today. He rather liked it better when it was down. He grinned.

"Wherever you feel would be best to start," he answered. "I do not know anything about your life." He sounded surprised as he said this and Arthur understood why. It had barely been two weeks since he'd met this man and already he'd developed a routine that virtually revolved around him and his schedule. It was odd to be so close to someone for so short a time and then suddenly realize just how short that time really was; when one suddenly realizes just how little one actually knew about someone else.

Arthur released a heavy breath and leaned back against the bench, crossing his legs casually and resting an arm over the back of the bench. His elbow brushed against Francis' and he jerked it away impulsively.

"Alright, well, my family is very rich, for starters, and they're very reputable in England. I hate them." Francis chuckled to himself and muttered something under his breath in French. Arthur heard and smiled himself, shaking his head. "Completely. Anyway, I was always raised to become a bloody priss, like them, but I resisted and here I am." Francis gave him a curious look.

"Really, Arthur, you can do better than that," he admonished. Arthur glared at the Frenchman.

"One step at a time, Frenchie," he growled. "We'll cross that bridge when we bloody well come to it." Francis threw his hands into the air in a hopeless gesture.

"Oh, you are insufferable!" he cried.

"No, I'm bloody hungry. Let's go get something to eat, frog."

"…_Salaud_."

Nevertheless, they stood and began to make their way towards the food they sought. Arthur nudged Francis.

"So, where do you want to go today?" he asked. Francis shrugged and tipped his head back, casual smile on his face.

"It does not matter to me," he said. "But I would love to sit outside, I suppose."

"_Le Jardin_?" Arthur asked immediately. He loved that place. Francis nodded.

"_Oui_, I could stand a meal there." He grinned. Arthur clapped his hands together.

"Alright, the bloody Garden it is," he exclaimed with a smirk. Francis twitched.

"_Le Jardin_, _salaud stupide_!" he corrected vehemently. Arthur chortled.

"Yea, alright," he mocked, raising a thick eyebrow in Francis' directions. "_Le Jardin_. Can we bloody go now?" He grabbed the Frenchman's arm and dragged him towards the intended restaurant.

* * *

"So, your parents are rich?"

"_Augh_, good God, man, you're still on about that?" Francis threw his hands up into the air.

"I have only mentioned it _twice_!" he cried quietly (they were in a restaurant after all). "And the first time it was only because _you_ brought it up!" Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Oh, please, I'll bet you were just dying to ask about it for the longest time—"

"_Mon Dieu_, I've only known you for two weeks-!"

"—And when the opportunity presented itself—"

"_Correction!_ _You _presented the opportunity-!"

"—_YOU_, like the bloody frog you are, _jumped on it_, with your little French froggie legs!"

"Oh, well isn't _that _just the most _mature_, _original_ thing I have ever heard—"

"And now, your nosy French _arse_ is stuck in all the wrong places—"

"Well, if it bothers you _that much_, you can just—"

"Euh, _excusez-moi, messieurs… vous êtes assez fort…_" (Uh, excuse me, sirs… you are quite loud…) Both Francis and Arthur jumped and turned to see a mousy looking waiter looking between the both of them nervously. Behind him the entire restaurant, it seemed was staring at them. Arthur turned bright red.

"Sorry," he mumbled quickly, while Francis apologized to the man in French. The waiter looked satisfied with this apology and told them quickly that they could stay if they kept the volume down. As Francis made to sit down again, Arthur glared at him and plopped back down into the seat. Whereas Francis seemed to glide back down to his previous seated position, Arthur sank heavily back down to the seat as though he were made of lead. His arms crossed on the table and his head fell with a _thunk_ between them.

"Well that was embarrassing," he muttered. Francis shrugged.

"Serves you right," he sniffed. Arthur groaned into his arms.

"Oh, don't bloody start again," he moaned. "I'd rather not get kicked out of this place before I get my bloody food, thanks." Francis, at least, had the decency to look mildly ashamed.

"Well, you did not need to overreact—"

"Neither did you," Arthur deadpanned, shooting Francis a sideways glance from the table. The Frenchman looked away.

"All I wanted to know was more about your parents—" he began.

"And I've told you all I want you to know, end of story," Arthur interjected. Francis pouted.

"But if we are going back to your home in _L'Angleterre_, don't you think I should at least know a bit more about your—"

"Wait, whoa, whoa, whoa, wait." Arthur's head shot up and he held his hands out to Francis as though to halt him. "I get called back home and suddenly _we're_ going to England? Where the fuck did this come from!" Francis smiled and rested his chin on his hand.

"I have always wanted to go to England," he confessed with a romantic sigh. "I want to see if the women there are really as big-feeted as everyone here makes them out to be." He paused to chuckle. Arthur made a mental note to maim him later.

"But—"

"Besides, my parents want to get rid of me. They want to me to go places to see if I can make something of myself." He chuckled again. Arthur detected something in his voice that wasn't entirely mirthful, though. He ignored it.

"Still, you weren't bloody invited and I'd rather not have to worry about dragging you all over the place," the Brit growled. Francis shot him a crooked grin and reached across the table to tap his nose.

"Oh, you worry about me, _qu'il est doux_! (how sweet!)"

"I do not, dammit!" Arthur stormed out of the restaurant.

* * *

**Okay, so this is more of a transition chptr then an actual progression of the plot. I'm trying to set stuff up with this one, I'm sorry about the slow-going-ness of it! Oh, and I also wanted to write these two arguing, cuz it's super fun! ;D And now, Arthur is back to his old self (I hope) and Francis is acting a bit more like his annoying in-your-face self too. I hope I did alright with their characters! **

**SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME WITH THE FRENCH! Seriously, I love the French language, I think it is one of the sexiest languages out there but I don't know crap about it, so if anyone can help me with the crappy google translator French translations, that would be much appreciated! **

**So, yeah, we're moving forward bit by bit. The one thing I want to make sure that I don't do is move to the climax too quickly. So updates may not be exactly regular, and I'm sorry if it ends up taking a while! Editing is a long process and I still make a lotta mistakes. -.-**

**Once again, if anyone catches anything that is wrong or doesn't make sense, just lemme know and I'll get on it! Gracias!  
**


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